Writing #2

I have a bad feeling about this.
Stealing,
this is stealing.
I'm taking what isn't mine.
Running,
glancing, shoving.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
How'd I get myself into this?
It trails me.
Ash beneath my feet.
Plead upwards.
It's foolish, I'm not even listening.
Slow down.
Walk.
Act normal.
Glass turns yellow to purple.
Normal people sleep.
They also live responsibly,
with pride
and duty.
I steal my character.
Dark corners,
geometric shapes jut out,
inwards,
into.
Eyes out of beards,
I'm being stared at
like a car crash.
Is it really that obvious?
The corner splits the world.
Former to current,
you can be whoever you want.
I walk,
leather,
one in front of the other.
There's no need to run,
it's on your heels no matter what.
Smoke drifts
but fate doesn't.
So smoke your lungs out,
and hope things change.